Refuge
by carandash
Summary: This is happening after susan kay´s book... somehow...


disclaimer: of course I doen´t own any professional writers ideas.

a/n I like writing little stories for fun an I specially like everything poto-related but yet did not trust myself to publish something. so this is my first try, and should you read it, please be patient with my lack of language knowlede. I´m not a native speaker. I wrote more chapters... should any of you like my ideas...: I "urgently" search one to beta-read my things and help me with the translation into aceptable english. thanks to my beta on this first lines bye the way!

* * *

Frozen to the bones, Christine made her way through the snow. She was in a better state of mind than she had been for weeks, her chin stretched out defiantly. Resolutely she took the heavy door-knocker. The cold iron sent a pain through her hand and made her use it  
like tea?" he spooled down. His French was adequate. "Yes, tea, please," she murmured, realising she had already watched him longer than would have been appropriate. His dress marked him to be a servant, but it was oriental and made her feel as if she had left Paris the moment she stepped over the threshold. The corridor the boy guided her through was carpeted wall-to-wall, and the small salon it lead into was also fully decorated and furnished in the – non-European – style that the leader of the household favoured. Instead of chairs, thick pillows covered the floor around a small table. Christine ´s feeling to do the right thing on which she clinked so much these days was strengthened by the interior. It seemed the Persian did not care more for Parisian social conventions; things simply had to be because they had always been that way, than he could prevent, either… She smiled to herself by the thought of noble, upper-class men in their stiff clothes sitting here on the floor. The young servant helped her out of her cloak, on which the snow had begun to melt, and, unsurely, he gestured to one of the richly decorated cushions. Obviously, he was not used to lady visitors.Without hesitation, and in the same fierce mood she had travelled in, she took a seat, rearranging her dress around her. "Thank you," she addressed him, smiling, not willing to treat a servant as a domestic toolas was the common practice in the high society, for example the de Chagny family. He shyly returned her smile and departed. She heard him running up a staircase. The time he needed to prepare tea and announce her would give her time to recollect her thoughts. It was important that Nadir took her seriously and not as a little girl who had simply got involved with things little girls should be better off not involved with. Angrily, she shook her head. She indeed _had_ been a little girl. That horrible evening less than a week ago when the mob of hysterical mama's boys had nearly celebrated their witch-hunt for Erik... Raoul had guided her through the many corridors and stairs up to daylight, half carrying her. Christine sighed. _Raoul was not a bad man, truly he wasn't. _But she did not plan to stay as "little Lotte" for the rest of her life. This precise night she could not stand him any longer. Everything suddenly seemed so wrong to her. To survive mentally, and find herself, she had needed to make a decision. A decision affecting Raoul, and the world he represented to her. In the household of her friend Meg Giry and her mother, who became a mother for Christine as well, she found a refuge. "Good evening, Mademoiselle Daaé, I am surprised that I may greet you as a guest of mine." Nadir stood in the door frame, carrying a tea tray. She jumped to her feet to greet him, but he waved her attempt aside. "Stay down, just stay seated. Whatever brought you to my door, it must be of high importance for you that it makes you wander around outside in this weather." He placed the tray on the table and walked out of the room, soon returning with a woollen blanket, which he wrapped around her shoulders before taking a seat himself. Christine adjusted the blanket a bit, watching the servant who now entered with an arm full of wood to stoke the fire. Thestraightforward manner in which things had gone on until now eased her distress a little. Nadir waited for the servant to leave. He then helped them both to a cup of tea, leaned back against the wall and slowly began to stuff his tobacco pipe, watching his unexpected guest invitingly. Christine took a deep breath and asked straight out and – she hoped – in a sure voice: "Is he still alive?" Now it was Nadir's turn to take a deep breath. He surveyed her closely for what seemed to be an eternity to her. Why was she asking him this?Of course, she had reason enough to ask. She was a sensitive young woman… pity, and maybe even something like a guilty conscience could well be her motive. But maybe it was even easier… Now that she soon would marry… he wondered if her fiancé knew where she was… "You don ´t need to be afraid of him any longer," he finally answered. That was exactly the kind of answer she had expected, though it was the one she wanted least. "Are you a friend of his?" Her voice was urgent, this short question her only remaining hope to bring the conversation in the right direction. Because she knew that she had no good base to convince the old man about the honesty and urgency of her matters of concern, she kept talking without giving him a chance to interrupt. "You should know that he had a heart-attack less than a month ago. He is sick and may need help; if you know where he might hide, please tell me! I don't know why and how well you know him but if you at least care one bit for him, please, please help me to find him, or tell me he is dead… " Her voice faded more and more and she decided to stop talking before she said something really stupid. Nervously, she studied the man opposite her. Nadir meanwhile studied something in his teacup. Her last statement made him slightly change his position and he seemed to come to a decision he had been struggling to make. He rose and motioned her to follow him. Sighing, and without a single word of explanation, he guided her upstairs.

The upper corridor had only two doors, one of them obviously belonging to the servants. Christine knew that they were like family to her host. She had imagined the house of the former police chief of the Persian Shah to be more impressive…Nadir did not turn to the servants' door. The boy had just emerged, and she noticed, absently, that hehad to beDarius' son. She saw him with his father, Nadir´s servant at the opera... Instead,Nadir turned to the other dor, pressing his index finger to his lips. Christine nodded, dazed… He opened the door and stepped aside, allowing her to look in. In shock she realised… there, in the darkened, undecorated chamber, even thinner and paler that she remembered him, was the feared Phantom of the Opera. Not to surprisingly, even now he wore a mask. The room contained nothing but a bed and a chair, on which a cup of water had been placed. He was tucked in carefully and seemed to be fast asleep. A nasty cut ran down the side of his neck and vanished under the collar of a night-gown, obviously belonging to Darius´ son, who was of equal build, but smaller. What caught her gaze even more were the purple lines of his ruined veins, criss-crossing the bare forearms resting on the blanket. She wanted to go inside, but Nadir stopped her and motioned her to follow him back downstairs. As silently as he could, he closed the door.Christine needed a while to gather herself. "How is he?" Nadir shrugged. "Maybe he has a chance to live…" he said and added in a very low voice: "…if he wants to." She nodded sadly.

Silence.

Christine felt thunderstruck. Her momentum about the idea that she needed to find Erik which brought her here had vanished. So here he was, still alive as she had hoped. But what should be the next step? "Your earlier question Mademoiselle…" "Yes?" "You were right. He is indeed a friend of mine, and I assure you that he is safe at my house." She emptied her teacup. "Thank you so far… Nadir… if I may address you that way. There is one more question I need to ask today. I have to know… can morphine ruin a man's mind?" She felt stupid and naïve about this matter, but her host was positively surprised that she brought the subject up. Maybe she had really become more mature by what had happened to her. Thoughtful, he sipped his tea. "His mind works fine, but I fear his soul had been damaged long before he first touched the stuff," he stated, and thought to himself, "Girl, if you plan to fight for him, you should be prepared to fight with him as well." Even if the girl had the best intentions for him, Erik was not a simple man… habits, fears and neurotic disorders gathered up for more than half a man's lifetime could not simply be laid aside like a wet cloak… He stopped his thoughts before they became an impossible hope in his mind.She would marry soon… Christine politely announced that she had to depart. He rose to walk her out and asked carelessly: "Will youreturn?"  
"Yes." "Will you, honestly?" He now gave her a stern look above his half moon glasses. She gave a weak, faint smile in return. "Sure enough that you can announce me to him, yes." She must have read his mind and know Erik better than he had expected...

Here begins chapter two… I suppose… ;-)

On her way home, Christine slowly managed to get her mind concentrated again. It was a decision to leave the safe path that she had set days ago, but now she would belong to the ones who made up the rules.Even though she was very scared, this instant felt right, and important to her. She spent three restless days at the Girys' apartment. Not only was she honestly concerned for the man who had already changed so much in her life, but her fiancé's efforts to find out her whereabouts at the Girys' door became more forceful, and so indignant that she did not dare to go out any more. Her place near the fire, where she sat motionless – there was nothing left to help with in the household despite her willingness – gave her much time to review the past two weeks, and their consequences. There were far-reaching consequences which became apparent, and they lay far beyond this man she was so concerned about. She knew barely more than his first name, and her thoughts would concentrate on him of their own accord. Two men had dominated her past month in a symbolic way. On one hand there was her fiancé, Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny. He was a dear childhood friend, and, if she was to marry him as she was supposed to, a life without any financial sorrows, with a safe place in society, and, sure enough, a loving husband, would be granted. On the other hand there was a stranger. A badly disfigured, violent, criminal, maybe even mad man, older than her, older than Raoul… how old was he? She could not guess… She knew absolutely nothing about his past and in her presence he dragged her in a bizarre and frightening dream… But she awoke and was beyond the decision of which of the two men asking for her hand she should marry. Long since, more important matters had showed up to her. In the salon of the Persian, sitting on the floor, it became tangible. When her father was still alive and they had a quite rootless life, gaining money at the fair, living here and there, spending time with artists and gypsies, with the poor or prominent people in equality… now, when she used to think that all her dreams had come true, she badly missed those rules and values determining her past, such a vast amount more worthy than money and even her social position. She carefully unfolded the calligraphy with the bohemian ideals freedom, wisdom and love she used to use as a book-sign in her diary nowadays.That felt a bit rebellious and from now on that should be her way instead of being reduced to something decorative for a rich family. And somehow, Erik had become a kind of key for what she longed so badly for, and she was ready to give up so much, without even being able to name it. She was sure that once she had it, she would lose it again.The whole 'angel' idea, he had made up for and around her, locking her up eternally with it, and it was part of her key to him. That thought slowly came into shape. She became aware of plenty things now… Since her father ´s death, someone was missing in her life, someone to tell her exactly what to do and where to go, a teacher, a guardian, a father… and that was exactly what Erik had offered when she followed his illusions. What if he died? Would she have the power to go on with what she had started on her own? She knew if she did so, she would lose friends and more. To discover… what…? The meaning of life? She gave a short, angry laugh to herself. She rose and stroked the rough and firm fabric of the dress, with which she had replaced the uncomfortable, but fancy, garments she used to wear before things went upside down. Firmly, she laced her boots. Outside it was nearly dark. Time to go out in safety. She could not stand to be imprisoned inside a day more. It came to her mind that this must be how Erik felt about going outside. "No." She shook her head in disagreement at that. She was not disfigured at all, she was the one who used to stand in the spotlight. Assuring herself that her interest in this outcast was more than just pity, but, finally, interest, she realised that was indeed a very poor man, who had already been through too much. What if he really was more a monster than a man? "Or what," Christine suddenly wondered "if he, like Raoul, fell in love not with me, but with a little girl, with "little Lotte?" She realised that could very well be the case.

It was not easy to find her way through the dark streets… Should she simply return to Raoul, making up a nice little story about where and why she had been hiding? No, for certain, that was the wrong thing to do. Poor Raoul. Now she was close to her destination. Using the key for the gate in the Rue Scribe, that Erik had given her, she planned to visit Erik's destroyed house. Her goal was to look for Ayesha. Did the cat survive the mob? Even so, did she survive on her own, drinking water from the lake and catching rats? She was sure the small animal meant much to him, maybe even more than a human being ever did. Another reason to get down there was that she wanted to fetch a few dresses now that her life without the de Chagny money began. Maybe she could rescue some of Erik's belongings from down there, too. But when she returned to visit him tomorrow, was it her right to beg him to stay alive? Did she have the right just to appear there as if nothing had happened? How would he react? And why had she not been bothered by this before? While she considered this she had reached the gate and begun her underground mission.

And another chapter. A sentimental one… maybe

Nadir made his way to Erik ´s room, slowly climbing the stairs. Getting older was not always a nice thing. Erik had to be in his late forties now, maybe even older. He took seat on the chair beside his bed now, watching him, and confessed that he felt something like a lost son to him. It was impossible not to notice the fast physical decay. "Now you are really a living corpse… buried yourself alive in your crypt down there for how long, Erik? Wasting your talents… Only cowards commit suicide, or did you forget?" These were the bitter thoughts of the old man. His old friend had found his way to him that night to die; Nadir was aware of the fact. When Erik staggered in and collapsed, he just bandaged the worst wounds those idiots had caused him, knowing that he could hardly bear to be touched. Calling a doctor was no matter of discussion. And what for? Erik's competence in medicine was undoubted. Nadir cast his mind backto Persia, twenty-five years ago. Then, he had seen this poor fellow in the same horrible state, somewhere between dead and alive, poisoned by "political" enemies. And Erik had decided to live, had taken that effort for Nadir's son, Reza, who already was close to dead and later died in Erik ´s arms. He ran his fingers through the simple silver necklace he had taken from Erik's neck while bandaging him, and hung it on the bedpost. With a warm smile, he remembered his surprise at the discovery that Erik wore it. It once belonged to Reza. The gesture woke his patient. "Hello, Erik, how are you?" "Fine, thank you." What a lie… His breathe was flat and uneven, his eyes feverish. He had not touched any food the entire of his stay. "Did you have another attack that night?" Nadir asked. "No." Was he being honest? It did not really matter. Silently Nadir fumbled to prepare morphine for an injection, bent forward, rolled up Erik's sleeve and set the shot. If these days, or maybe weeks, turned out to be the last for his friend, he should not suffer with withdrawal symptoms. Soon Erik's hands, which were clutched into fists, relaxed. It would be a good time to talk with him… yet Nadir could not bring himself to tell him about Christine's visit. He planned to wait to see if she would return and if he – by then – was still alive. He gave a start when Erik suddenly grasped his arm tightly. "Will you be at Christine's wedding? Promise me to give her my congratulations… and apologies, will you?" he urgently demanded. Nadir hurried to promise and Erik, panting at the effort, let him free. His strong will, cool preciseness, mixed up with his all-too-fast rising temper, were not forgotten, and maybe he could even get dangerous in his state."Daroga?" he called out, his voice hardly above a whisper. What concerned him now? "Do you lately walk about your own house with a hand risen to the level of your eyes?" Nadir gave a laugh, relieved that being addressed with his former title did not mean a provocation. "No Erik. You are welcome at my house, and you know it." "So…" Erik stated "…you paint a rainbow for me." At this, all provoking, mocking, teasing and yelling the masked man had ever done to him (and it was plenty) was forgotten. At last he allowed himself to be comfortable about being cared for.


End file.
